


A Solstice Carol

by zorb



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-21
Updated: 2005-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-06 03:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zorb/pseuds/zorb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of the winter solstice, Saul Tigh is alone and perfectly content to stay that way, thank you very much.  Can a visit from an old friend teach him otherwise?  Extremely AU. Based on and with text liberally drawn from <i>A Christmas Carol</i> by Dickens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Adama's Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> If Christianity can co-opt pagan traditions, I can put them back. All information on Brumalia and the solstice comes from the interweb; all errors are mine. Characters and relationships are arranged to suit the plot, not shipping or BSG canon. Thanks to photosinensis for the beta. This fic is crack that ate my brain, and I sincerely apologize. Happy non-denominational holidays to you.

Adama was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. Signed, sealed, and consigned to the earth he had been, as witnessed by the appropriate officials and chief mourner, which had been Tigh, himself. There could be no question. The old man was as dead as a doornail.

Tigh and Adama had been partners in business for many years, chief owners of a shipping corporation. They were each other's sole legal and administrative tie, sole trustee, and Tigh was the sole mourner when Adama died. This is a crucial point to understand, you see; the story I am to tell must be founded on the knowledge of Adama being firmly, absolutely, and unquestionably dead.

Though it had been seven years since the event in question, Tigh had never had Adama's name removed from the sign outside their office in Caprica City, and accordingly, it remained the same on all other documentation and transactions. The business's name was Adama and Tigh; sometimes people called him Adama, and sometimes Tigh, but Tigh didn't care so long as they paid their bills.

As for the current owner, the best words to describe him were hard, sharp, and cold. Tigh had to be known in short phrases, not for a lack of understanding on his part, but because they perfectly suited his disposition. There was no dissembling with Tigh; what there was to see and know of him could be perfectly seen and known on one meeting, and one meeting was generally all people wanted to do with him. A solitary figure, he made his way in the world in the most economical way he could, shutting out all the unnecessary and superfluous trimmings of behavior and life, caring only for the day's profit numbers. The world, in return, was quite content to let him go on as such, and though many an ungracious word had been spoken about him outside (and within) his presence, most people gave him not a second thought if they could help it.

We join this story on an evening that fitted Tigh in temperature but not in spirits – the eve of the winter solstice festival, Brumalia. Winter had come to Caprica, and today in particular was dark, damp, and cold. It was hardly warmer inside Adama and Tigh than outdoors. They had saved a lot of money buying an empty lot, rather than renting space in an upscale steel and glass structure in the newer business district, and simply grounding an out-of-service transport ship. The small cockpit was closed up, but the two storage compartments had been converted into a full office space. They hadn't bothered with the systems upkeep, aside from communications and electricity; a grounded ship had no need for life support or navigation. One space heater was all that Tigh deemed necessary for the entire office, which was only occupied on a regular basis by two people: Tigh and his clerk, Agathon, who at the moment in question had his lanky frame huddled in the second compartment as well as he could while still appearing diligent to his sharp-eyed employer.

In the late afternoon of an otherwise unremarkable day, the communications console buzzed, and Tigh answered it on the vid-phone. "Adama and Tigh."

"A blessed Brumalia to you, Uncle!" cried the young man whose face appeared on the screen, exuding an odious degree of cheer.

"Bah!" said Tigh. "Humbug, even."

To Tigh's greater ire, his "nephew" laughed, the tinny ringing echoing through the office. "Come on, even you can't dislike Brumalia! It's a feast to Bacchus, after all."

There was a muffled sound from the side room that could either have been a cough or a snort. "Keep that up, and you'll be back on the job market tomorrow!" shouted Tigh before directing his glare back to the screen.

The young man on the line was not his nephew by blood. Rather, he was his late partner's surviving son, who had gravitated towards books and scholarship rather than the family business. Adama senior had been estranged from his son for many years, hence Tigh being the sole benefactor of the will. At first, when Lee had started calling and coming around to the office after his father's death, Tigh had suspected him of wanting a slice of the business, but nothing but well-wishes and invitations had ever resulted – the kid with the merry eyes and wide grin seemed to think that _he_ could give something to _Tigh_.

"Why feast to gods you don't believe in?" grunted Tigh. "Better spend the day making your fortune, instead of throwing it away."

And damn him if Lee didn't laugh again! "It's not about the gods; it's about celebrating the season and being grateful for the friends and _family_," he said pointedly, "in your life. So I'll say it again: Blessed Brumalia to you!"

"If I had my way," Tigh growled, "every idiot who runs around with 'Blessed Brumalia' on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart."

"A little harsh, don't you think?"

"Frak Brumalia." This finally wiped the irrepressible grin from Lee's face; Tigh, triumphant, turned to his desk. "If that's all you had to say, get off with you and clear the line."

"Actually, I was calling to invite you to dinner tomorrow. We're having some friends, and we'd both love you to join us," said Lee, more subdued but still, for some reason, sounding as if he expected an affirmative answer.

"Bah," said Tigh again. "I take it that 'we' includes that wife of yours?"

"Of course."

"Good afternoon," he said pointedly.

"What, you're refusing because I'm married, now? You never accepted when I wasn't!"

"Good afternoon."

"You and my father were friends, and I know you used to like me."

"Good afternoon."

"Fine, have it your way. The offer still stands, but I won't harass you anymore. Blessed Brumalia, Uncle, and a happy-"

"Good frakking afternoon!" And with that, Tigh cut the connection.

"Brumalia," he grumbled. "Another pathetic, government-sanctioned excuse for laziness and loss of profit." Before he could work himself into a truly formidable rage, however, the console buzzed again and Tigh checked the identification tag before answering, dreading a return call.

To his relief, it listed two unknown names: Keikaya and Dualla. The screen showed a pair of callers of Lee's age but much more businesslike in appearance. The young man spoke first. "Blessed Brumalia! Am I addressing Mr. Adama or Mr. Tigh?"

Tigh snorted. "Mr. Adama has been dead for seven years. If you're addressing him, you need services beyond what my business provides."

"Ah – er, yes, of course," the young man – hardly more than a boy - stuttered. "Our condolences, of course."

"I don't need 'em."

"Er – right."

Fortunately for both Tigh's patience and the boy's reddening cheeks, his partner cut in. "And we're sure you'll want to honor his memory at this season. Mr. Tigh, we represent a non-profit organization dedicated to helping those whose suffering is so much greater than our own. Thousands of people in this city alone, and untold millions on Caprica, have trouble providing basic necessities for themselves and their families."

She seemed about to go on, but Tigh broke in. "Are there no prisons?"

The woman's mouth still hung open for the next line in her script as she glanced quickly at her partner. "Yes…yes, there are."

"And the workhouses?" pressed Tigh. "They haven't gotten rid of those?"

"They haven't," said the young man, who had finally recovered his voice. "That's part of what our group is working towards. Of course, a movement like this one depends on the generous contributions of local businesses and sponsors. How much can we put you down for this year, sir?"

"Nothing!" barked Tigh.

The two glanced at one another again. "An anonymous donation?" the woman ventured.

"No! Nothing! I can't afford to waste cubits on people too lazy to earn them on their own."

"But Mr. Tigh, the number of people who suffer and die each year–"

"If they're going to die, they'd better do it now and decrease the surplus population. It's not my problem. Good afternoon!" Ending the call again, he yelled to his employee, "Agathon! You answer anything else that comes in. If it's not real work, tell them to go away, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's right," muttered Tigh to himself. "One more 'Blessed Brumalia' and whoever says it will be sorry he ever heard the name."

But the rest of the day was silent, which suited Tigh perfectly. When it came time to close, Agathon hovered near the airlock hatch.

"You'll want all day tomorrow, I suppose?" grumbled Tigh.

"Yes, sir. If that's all right, sir," said his assistant, snugging his hat lower on his forehead.

"I'll bet you expect full pay for it, too."

"Sir…it's only once a year…"

"Hell of an excuse. Fine, all day. But I expect you in early the next day to make up for it." Agathon promised he would be and left as fast as his long legs could carry him to hurry home to his wife and numerous spawn. Tigh only knew that because Agathon had once tried to tell him about them. He quickly learned that was not an acceptable topic of conversation at work.

Not that there were any acceptable topics with Tigh, unless they had to do with work.

Tigh shut down his own workstation and left the office, which simply meant taking the narrow staircase leading to the living quarters above. The ship had once been Adama's, his full-time home after his second divorce, and Tigh had taken the rooms up on Adama's death.

The wind was blowing through the open vent in the bulkhead as he crossed the landing. Appropriately atmospheric, perhaps, but not anything to improve Tigh's mood. No, that sort of improvement was waiting for him inside, and as he reached to spin the hatch lock, Tigh cracked something approaching a smile at the thought of it. The logo in the wheel's center was its only ornamentation, done in the classic style of a chimera -

\- only it wasn't.

"What the…"

The chimera was actually _shifting_ before his very eyes! Tigh jerked his hand away. The weak lighting from above wavered in front of him, seeming to shape the image into what looked like a human face – and what's more, a familiar one. Tigh stepped backwards, for the face was none other than that of his departed partner! As Tigh alternately blinked and rubbed at his eyes, Adama's ephemeral mouth opened.

"Sauuul!"

Then, as quickly as it appeared, the spectre was gone, returning to the solid, motionless animal face.

Tigh regained his firm grasp on the wheel. "Damn wind," he grumbled, spinning it sharply and hurrying inside. Not that he was in any way reacting to the wheel's transformation, mind you. No, it was only the cold draft and the yearn for his own room's comforts that drew him in so quickly.

In the sitting room, he finally found his relief for the whole unpleasant day with a healthy dose of green liquid medicine poured from the bottle on the shelf. Tigh sank into his armchair in front of the built in false hearth with his drink, resolving to put the whole thing out of his mind.

"What's to celebrate about a solstice, anyway," he muttered. "It's only a name science has given to a fact of physics."

The drink did its work, and Tigh was just about to turn in when the picture frame on the bulkhead rattled. He jerked and looked over at it – his old flight certificate, framed and mounted with honor – and it stilled momentarily, only to start up again, joined by what little else there was on the walls and the few pieces of furniture.

Tigh jumped up, snatching his glass from the table beside him before it could shake off the edge.   
He tried to bring up what vague recollections of earthquake safety procedures he could. Was he supposed to get under a table or by a wall? But the rattling didn't cease as he thought it should in an earthquake, and the floor beneath him was solid.

As he tried to think of what service to call to handle rattling furniture, another sound slowly overtook it – a clinking, clunking sound, as if someone were dragging a heavy chain in the ship…up the stairs…across the landing…to his very hatch…and as Tigh backed rapidly towards the opposite bulkhead, _through_ the hatch.

It was the face he had seen on the wheel, but with the figure to accompany it. Adama, grey and translucent, strode into the quarters he had occupied in life. There could be no doubt of its being he – his grounded stride, straight back, and steady gaze through the spectacles perched on his nose were all Adama, through and through. But what he carried with him! It was indeed a chain, the very one Tigh had heard, wrapped around the ghostly body and dragging behind him, adorned with lockboxes and ledgers of all shapes and sizes. A patch on his chest bore a dark stain where Adama had once suffered a near-fatal injury.

Tigh's voice was caught up in his throat until Adama stopped moving. "What do you want?" he finally eked out.

"Much." Adama's rough voice was hoarse with disuse.

"Who are you?"

"In life, I was your partner, Bill Adama." The ghost shuffled over to Tigh's abandoned chair and settled with a clang as two of his burdens knocked together. He looked at Tigh. "You don't believe I'm really here."

"Of course you're not really here, you're dead!" Tigh exclaimed, and as he waved his arm, he remembered the glass still in his hand. He brought it forward. "Bad ambrosia on an empty stomach, that's all you are. I'll get rid of the bottle tomorrow."

Adama said nothing, and only continued to stare at Tigh with that familiar, piercing gaze.

"Humbug, I tell you!" Tigh cried. "Humbug!"

At this, the rattling, which had continued underneath the ghost's appearance, grew to such an enormous roar that Tigh was forced to drop his glass at last and clap his hands over his ears. The hearth, only a decorative fixture, filled with flame, casting Adama's fearsome shadow on the wall behind him. The image shook so convincingly that Tigh could almost believe another spirit had joined them, and he fell to his knees.

"All right, I believe! Spirit, have mercy on me! Why have you come, and why to me?"

"In life, every person is commanded to walk among their fellow Colonials, to travel between the planets in spirit if not in person. If the spirit doesn't accompany the body on the journey, it is doomed to do so after death."

"You traveled, Bill! You piloted ships from Caprica to Sagittaron and everywhere in between. What are the chains that bind you now?" said Tigh, pointing a shaking hand.

"I wear the chain I forged in life. Yes, I made it, every link and bond, and of my own free will. It shouldn't be so foreign to you, Saul; the one you bear was as long as mine seven years ago, and you've been working steadily since to lengthen it further."

"I don't understand. I work hard; I make good, honest money. I contribute to the local economy."

"Money!" roared Adama. "The economy!"

"Yes, dammit, just as you used to do!" Tigh bit back. "Only good business! You can't tell me it was a fault!"

"Business!" Adama scoffed. "Humankind should have been my business. The Lords of Kobol learned that the hard way, destroying themselves with infighting and selfishness, and I am here tonight to share that lesson with you before it's too late."

Tigh lifted his head. Bill continued, "My time here is almost up. You will be visited tonight by three spirits."

"I think I've had all the spirits I need tonight, thanks," Tigh answered automatically, nodding towards his fallen glass.

"Three spirits, on the hour!" Adama said again. "You have a choice to make, Saul. You can ignore them, continue on as you were, or you can follow them and make a change."

"What do you think I should do?" Tigh asked.

"I'm gone, Saul; the choice is yours alone." The ghost rose as if in enormous pain, chains clinking together again. He looked back to Tigh. "Sometimes, you have to roll a hard six." He made his way across the room to the small porthole, which flung open as he approached. Tigh stood and took a step towards his friend, but Adama held up a hand and looked out the open hole. "Brumalia."

And then he was gone, out into the cold. Tigh rushed afterwards to see where he had gone, but it was no use; before his eyes, a multitude of spirits flew through the air like Vipers in a show, dancing and weaving among one another. But there was nothing celebratory about their flight, for each one carried a chain like Adama's, all different in size but equal in weight and pain, judging by their faces. He tried to see if any others were familiar; he thought he caught a glimpse of a rival businesswoman, but Cain's would-be spectre was out of sight before he could be certain.

The wind gusted again, and Tigh remembered himself and shut the porthole (he hadn't known it could open at all). He turned back to the room; everything was still. No moving frames, no fire, and the hatch was spun shut as it had always been. Tigh picked up his glass from the floor. "Frakking cheap booze." He set it down and moved into the bedroom. "Spirits, indeed. Humbug."

Not sparing another glance towards the frames on the wall or above the mantle, Tigh went straight to bed and fell asleep.


	2. The First of the Three Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first spirit visits Tigh for an "educational" trip through his past. Meanwhile, the author amuses herself with bad puns.

Tigh woke with a start. It was still night, according to the porthole, through which not even a slice of moonlight shone. He could hardly make out the clock on the opposite wall, but the hands could have been at four and after one, and that was good enough for him. Almost 0130, then, but on what night? Sleep was never something that escaped Tigh, particularly not after a glass of his favorite, and it had hardly been 2400 when…

He supposed it was the dream that woke him. Such a strange dream! He told himself, however, that it was only natural to dream of his former partner on the anniversary of his death. And of course, it must have been a dream. There was no such thing as ghosts.

Satisfied with that explanation, he settled back into the sheets, but sleep eluded him as his mind turned the dream over again. A nightmare, really, to think of Adama in such a state. He was almost impressed with his subconscious for conjuring it up.

He must have dozed, because when his eyes jerked to the clock again, he saw – and even heard – the longer hand c  
lick to three notches past the half-hour. Resolving to put the dream out of his mind, he rolled onto his side.

There was someone standing beside his bed.

Tigh jerked up, reaching for the light and the gun he kept under his mattress at the same time. "Don't move, I'll shoot!"

But the figure didn't so much as twitch, and with the light on, he could see it was a woman, middle-aged and vaguely familiar. She watched him in silence. She was clad in a feminine sort of suit, her auburn hair feathered out from her face.

"I know you," he muttered. "You're the one that wanted to turn Adama and Tigh into a museum, aren't you?"

The woman said nothing but continued to regard him with a patient half-smile. As she did, a curious trick of the light made it seem as if the glow did not come from the lamp by his bedside, but from behind her, or perhaps _from_ her. Indeed, as he stared, he saw that the lamp actually was growing dim inversely to the increase in her glow. A faint, heady aroma began to reach his senses. Some sort of root fragrance, he thought.

He remembered her name with a start – Roslin – and then he also remembered that she had died many years ago, not long after her campaign to transform the old ship from a place of business to one of tourism. He shrank back from her and dropped the hand holding the weapon.

"Are you the spirit whose coming was foretold to me?" he said weakly.

"I am," she replied with a small nod. Her voice was what he remembered, but with an echo that surrounded him.

"I know who you look like, but it can't be. You're –" On the verge of saying "dead," he remembered Adama's visit, and looked to the spirit for explanation.

"I am the Ghost of Solstice Past," she replied.

"Long past?"

"No. Your past."

"What business brings you here?" Tigh asked, trying to regain some semblance of dignity; a difficult task from his position amongst the tangled bed sheets.

"Your welfare," she answered, tone unchanging.

"My welfare?" He snorted. "Leaving me in peace to sleep off tonight would be better for my welfare."

She tilted her head to the side. "Fine. Your reclamation, if you prefer." She crossed the room, and as Tigh watched, the glow followed with her. She reached out a hand towards him. "Rise, and walk with me."

He couldn't refuse. Standing and joining her, he watched her extend the other arm towards the porthole, which swung open again, though he had secured it tightly. She took his hand – her grasp was cold, soft, and strong – and brought him with her to the opening. Tigh made out what she intended to do and protested loudly. "Are you crazy? I can't fit through there!"

Roslin the spirit only looked at him with that insufferable smile again and drew them both to the porthole, and before Tigh could protest again, they had stepped through the outer hull and onto a black-topped playground. A one-story brick building stood next to it on one side, a snow-covered field on the other. Fixed Pyramid goals were on either side of them, with a metal frame for swings and a jungle gym ahead. There was no sign of Caprica City or any of its structures, but Tigh knew without a doubt where they were.

"It's my old grammar school!" he exclaimed. "I as good as lived here for many years." He looked around in excitement, recognizing favorite spots – the small hill they used to hide behind, the drains they would climb! A brief wind brought the cold to his face, and the air was clean and fresh.

The spirit offered him a handkerchief. Tigh blinked at her and shook himself, straightening his shirt.

Roslin turned to the school building. "The school isn't quite deserted. A solitary child finds time for his studies even while all the other students are bemoaning the days until they must return to them."

Tigh made no response but to press his lips more firmly together. The spirit took him forward, and just as they had passed through his building, they went through the brick wall and into a classroom. Memory flooded Tigh's mind; desperate to push them away, he remarked snidely, "You must be at home here, schoolteacher," for he had just remembered the real Roslin's former office.

She smiled at him again and pointed towards the corner, where a lone boy of twelve sat at a desk, a thick book in front of him. School was not in session, true, but there were ways inside for wily boys to find, and this one had found them all. He didn't look up at Tigh or his companion, only turned the page and buried his thin nose in the text.

Tigh looked at Roslin. "He can't see us?"

"These are but shadows of things that have been," she replied. "The have no consciousness of us." She moved behind the book, as if to read over his shoulder, and Tigh could almost imagine she was his own beloved Miss Minerva, come back to life again. The image broke when she looked up again. "Why is he here, Saul?"

"He has nowhere else to go," Tigh answered stiffly. "His parents are dead; the orphanage has too many to give him peace; no one wants a half-grown child."

There was a noise of squeaking shoes in the hall.

"No one?" asked Roslin, straightening up and rejoining Tigh.

The door to the classroom burst open, and another boy skidded into the room. "Saul! There you are! When I couldn't find you at County, I thought you might have ended up back here."

The boy's cheeks were red with the cold outside, and his breathing was still heavy from running through the snow. His furred cap covered dark, curly hair, and a thick coat hid a tall frame, but blue eyes still sparkled, not yet covered by glasses. Tigh knew them all the same. "Bill…" he whispered.

"Your former partner?" asked Roslin.

"Yes," he responded, with a nod, "though not for a few years yet."

The seated boy shrugged. "You know how it is, right?" He didn't make a move to get up.

Young Bill crossed the room and planted his hands on his friend's desk. "You mean how it was."

Young Saul sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about?"

"I mean my father's done it!" Bill exclaimed. "You're to come home with me for the holidays, and I bet forever after that, too!"

Saul jumped up. "You're frakking with me."

Bill shook his head. "Honest truth, Saul. You know he's the best lawyer in the city. Probably even on Caprica. I don't know what he did, but you're free of that place."

Saul stared at his friend for another moment before breaking into laughter. "I'm free," he choked out.

"Yeah, you are," replied Bill. "Come on, let's get out of here."

As the two youths gathered Saul's fraying coat and hat, Roslin commented, "Such a friendship they had."

"Had?" asked Tigh. "No, that was only the beginning of it. They never stopped being friends, not once."

"But when did they stop laughing?"

Tigh tore his eyes from the departing pair and glared at Roslin. As he eyed her placid face with suspicion, the scene shifted around them, settling into a street in the city's warehouse district. They stood in front of a large door with a window beside it, from which bright light poured into the night.

"Do you know where we are?" asked Roslin.

"Do I!" replied Tigh. "We had our first real jobs here!"

They went into the building, and the warmth inside enveloped them so that Tigh felt his spirits rising in spite of himself. The warehouse was the shipping company's headquarters and hub. Its owner had worked in shipyards for years and wanted his own business to reflect that community atmosphere he'd enjoyed. The repair floor was the same as the where ships were loaded and unloaded for transport, and it also held the desks where transactions happened and forms were signed. The most stately desk within was occupied by said owner, a stout man of unassuming appearance. Tigh stopped in his tracks.

"Well, I'll be! It's old Tyrol!" He grinned at his former employer, who signed his last report with a flourish and then pushed back from his seat.

Tyrol called across the floor. "Bill! Saul! Are you still working?"

The young men in question pulled their heads out from under the computer console they were repairing. "Almost done, sir!" said one.

"You're done now," Tyrol replied with a laugh. "Clear the deck and stack your tools! Gaeta," he said, beckoning his assistant, "file these reports away. It's Brumalia, and time to celebrate!"

At the master's command, all of the pilots, technicians, and staff shoved aside their work and jumped to their feet. They cleared the deck of all its boxes and crates, gathered together to roll the smaller vessels aside and lift desks to the corners. In no time at all, the floor was clean and they were stringing garland on the walls and hanging bright banners from the rafters. Some of them brought out their instruments and began to warm up.

"There's his children," said Tigh, pointing to the stairs that led from the rooms above. "Let me see, that must be Kat, Hot Dog, Crash, and Racetrack." He glanced at Roslin. "Not their real names, of course, but that's what we called them." He turned back to the gaggle of Tyrol's offspring as they raced each other down the stairs. "They look so young."

The band struck up an old tune, and food and drink appeared from somewhere, along with a bevy of guests dressed in holiday finery. Someone called out "Husker!" and Tigh's attention flew to the center of the room, where the two young men were the focus of attention. "Husker" waved his arm towards his caller, and his sandy-haired companion nudged him with an elbow and said something in a low voice that made them both laugh.

"What did you tell him?" Roslin asked.

"Hell if I know now," replied Tigh, eyes fixed on his younger counterpart. "Some inside joke or other, I'm sure. We were as close as brothers, Bill and I; everything had a second meaning or association linked to it that only we knew."

They watched as the young Adama broke off from his friend and hurried to meet a young woman who had just entered the room. He lifted her and swung her around, and she laughed in delight before planting an earnest kiss on his mouth.

"Who's that?"

"Caroline," answered Tigh. "He's going to ask her to marry him tonight."

The happy pair were joined by the young Tigh, who gave Caroline a hug and let her kiss his cheek.

"Did that bother you?" Roslin asked.

"What? No, of course not! I was thrilled for him, and she was a great girl," Tigh said indignantly.

Roslin pressed further. "They had two children, didn't they?"

Tigh's face fell. "Two boys. But only one survived to adulthood. Bill was never…"

The music changed, and couples paired off to dance. Bill and Caroline moved to the dance floor, leaving Saul by himself.

"But you had met someone yourself recently, hadn't you."

Saul didn't stay alone for long. His searching eyes finally found their target, and with a spring in his step, he hurried towards a woman at the side of the room. Tigh followed his younger self.

As they approached, the woman turned around, and Tigh was struck with a feeling he hadn't had since – well, since he'd been here last. Her face was smooth and tanned, framed by golden blonde hair that was perfectly curled. She was tall, with bright eyes that lit up on his younger self's approach. "Oh, Saul! I didn't see you when I came in."

The man in question smiled back at her and held out his hand. "Dance with me, Ellen?" The lady took his arm, and they joined their friends. How Tigh yearned to join them! His muscles strained towards the dance floor, and when he looked down, his foot was tapping to the beat. He could see Roslin watching him from the corner of his eye, but he ignored her.

As the dance ended, Saul and Ellen made their way to the beverage table and poured each other generous helpings of ambrosia. "Such a waste," said the spirit.

"A waste?" exclaimed Tigh, turning towards her at last. "This, a waste?"

"An extravagance," Roslin said. "Just think of all the hard earned money that Tyrol is throwing away tonight."

"It's hardly anything," scoffed Tigh. "The decorations are handmade, reused every year."

"And yet, by their gratefulness, one might mistake it for the richest ball in town."

"You don't understand," he protested, "it's not the cost; it's what Tyrol gives of himself to them. He had power over us far greater than anything material. His good word was our nectar. He set the example with the work of his own hands, and we could only follow out of total respect."

They stood in silence, and Tigh felt that though he'd had the last word, he hadn't won the argument.

Finally, the spirit spoke again. "Come. My time grows short. We have one more scene to visit."

With one last glance at Ellen, spinning under her partner's arm with a half-empty glass in the other hand, Tigh followed the spirit back out the door.

They were no longer outside the warehouse; instead, they had stepped into a pub he hadn't patronized in a good fifteen years, at least. It catered to a young, up and coming crowd, and Tigh had long since moved on from such idle social pursuits. Roslin pulled him towards a booth near the back where the very couple they had just been watching were seated. They were older than they had been at Tyrol's; the man's hair was thinner, woman's face was tighter. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her hand was trembling around her glass, and Tigh suddenly knew what they were about to witness.

He recoiled from the table. "There's no need for us to stay for this, Spirit. I know how it ends. Let's go."

The ghost looked at him sharply and would not budge. Tigh couldn't move her by will or force, nor could he release her hand. He pleaded, "If you want to stay and watch, be my guest, but let me wait outside." The ghost shook her solemn head; Tigh had no choice but to return his gaze to the table before them.

"I understand, you know," the woman was saying in a broken voice. "You're ambitious, Saul. I loved that about you, once."

"What changed, Ellen?" the man across from her pleaded. "Why could you love me before but not now?"

"I don't know," she said, sniffling. "You always said things would be better for us someday…that when you made your fortune, then we'd get married…"

"And we will, I promise! You just need to give me a little more time. Adama and Tigh is really taking off. You'll see, we'll be rich, and you can have anything you want."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"What I want, Saul. What if what I want is you?"

"I don't understand." Tigh could hardly restrain himself from reaching out and smacking his younger self on the head. "You always said you wanted me to succeed, _us_ to succeed."

"And I did, or," she choked back a sob, "I thought that's what I wanted. But the price, I've found, is too high." She stopped and took a deep breath. "You've found a new god to worship, and it isn't me."

"Ellen!" he protested. "I still love you!"

"Maybe," she said, "but not as much as you love your wealth." She slid out of the seat and slung her purse over her shoulder. "Goodbye, Saul. I wish you luck."

Tigh could no longer hold back. "You frakking idiot!" he yelled at the young man sitting stunned in the booth. "Go after her, you fool! This is your only chance!"

But the younger Tigh only sat and stared at the empty glasses before him. The bell ringing as the door closed pierced through the din.

Tigh turned to Roslin, a sob escaping him. "Take me from this place, Spirit. I want to more of this past."

Roslin did not react to his grip on her sleeve, but as she stared at him, the glow behind her head grew once more, until it overtook the entire room, surrounding them in a brilliant white light. Tigh was forced to cover his eyes. When he could finally open them again, he saw that he was once more in his quarters, the spirit nowhere to be found. Overcome with exhaustion, he stumbled to his bed and crashed into a deep sleep.


	3. The Second of the Three Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second spirit arrives, with a cigar and a sharp tongue. She brings more than humor with her as Tigh's re-education continues.

When Tigh woke again, he was clutching his pillow to his chest and breathing into the mattress. Looking around quickly, he saw no ghostly intruders, but he did catch sight of the clock, which was once again at 0133 hours. Time, then, for the next visitor.

He looked towards the (closed) porthole. Nothing but black night.

He hesitated only briefly before leaning over to look underneath the bed. Nothing but dust.

The clock was ticking past 0140 when he finally noticed that the hatch to his sitting room was ringed with bright light. Tigh made a mental note to inspect it later as he rose and tip-toed towards the door. He didn't bother with his gun this time, knowing in his heart that the second spirit must be the source. As he touched the latch, a voice called out, "Are you coming in, or not? I don't have all night."

Steeling his courage, Tigh wrenched the door open and stepped into his sitting room – or it should have been, but the arrangement was so changed that he hardly recognized it but for his own furniture and wall hangings.

The room was filled with ghostly figures gathered around card tables, talking, laughing, drinking, and betting all manner of absurd things. They were all dressed in what he recognized as off-duty military uniforms, and they didn't notice Tigh at all. On closer look, the figures, cards, tables and all were composed entirely of smoke, whose line Tigh followed backwards until he found the source.

"Frak. Not you."

Seated in his favorite armchair with her feet kicked up on the ottoman was a woman who was not composed of smoke, though she, too, wore the military tanks and pants. Her dark blonde hair was cropped short, and on her face was a grin Tigh had once grown to know and hate. She flicked the long cigar she was smoking.

"What's the matter, _Colonel_? Not happy to see me?" She waggled her eyebrows.

"Starbuck," he growled. The nickname she'd bestowed on him years ago made his shoulders tighten involuntarily.

"Just because I gave you a black eye the last time we met is no reason to be unfriendly," she added, smirking in joy for the pain she was causing him.

"What the hell are you doing here? What are all these –" he waved his hand at the ghostly crowd " – _people_ doing here?"

"_I_ am the Spirit of Solstice Present, and _these people_ are atmosphere," she replied. "But if you don't want them around…" She leaned forward in her seat and blew at the smoky figures. Though it was not possible that one breath should dispel all that had accumulated, the figures dissolved into mist and then into nothing. Starbuck leaned back in her chair and stuck the cigar between her front teeth. "Surprised to see me?"

"Surprised doesn't even begin to cover it," said Tigh. "Let's just get this over with."

Starbuck shrugged. "If that's how you want to play it." She swung her feet down and stood up, shrugging on a hooded sweatshirt. "Touch my sleeve."

"What?"

She rolled her eyes. "I won't bite, I promise."

Not having any more appealing choice or retort at the ready, Tigh did as she told him.

There was no stroll through the hull this time; the room instantly fell away and left them standing on the city streets. They were in an area of town that Tigh had only seen pictures of in newspapers – a district that, every winter, turned into a month-long festival for Brumalia. All of the shops and businesses were decorated for the holiday, and everything stayed open late. It was a tourist attraction, mostly, designed to revitalize an otherwise impoverished neighborhood. Large department stores were not permitted to open branches within the few square blocks designated. It was early evening, and the streets were filled with people laughing, talking, and singing.

In short, it was a nightmare.

Starbuck didn't take notice of Tigh's discomfort as she strolled down the block. Tigh had no choice but to follow. She stopped at each corner and tapped her cigar ash. "Should we buy you an ashtray?" Tigh asked with a sneer.

She glared back at him. "It's a blessing on their homes and businesses."

His brow wrinkled in confusion. "Shouldn't you be using ambrosia for that?"

"I can think of better ways to enjoy a bottle of booze, can't you?" She smirked, and in spite of himself, Tigh broke into a smile of his own.

Having reached an understanding, they continued through the holiday district. Tigh noticed that Starbuck did not tap her cigar on the most expensive-looking shops, and he asked her why she should bestow her blessing on the poorest alone.

"They need it more," she replied simply. "The others have my blessing by the good work they do for others."

They left the carousing behind and entered a residential area. The festival of Brumalia was clearly still in full swing – the squares were filled with families dancing and singing, and as they left one behind, Tigh didn't realize he was still humming the song until he caught Starbuck's raised eyebrows, at which he coughed and clasped his hands securely behind his back.

The neighborhood was lined with apartment buildings with only narrow alleys between them. Lines were strung between buildings, presumably to hang laundry, though a scarce few articles were pinned now. The street was narrow, its sidewalks were cracked, and every third streetlamp needed a new bulb. Yet, as Tigh looked at the lit windows, every one spoke joy.

Starbuck abruptly turned up the stairs of one building, beckoning Tigh to follow her inside. They climbed three flights of stairs. Tigh had to sidestep and skip one every now and then to avoid the mysterious dark patches on the thin, burnt orange carpeting. They stopped at last in front of number twelve and passed inside as easily as they had come through the front door.

There was no doubt that the apartment was cozy; indeed, it was the most well-lived place in which Tigh had ever been. Every available spot had a furnishing that showed years of love and good use, from the couch and chairs to the flat table in the center of the room. Every appliance in the kitchen, which was open to the room, was working on some pot or dish, and the whole apartment was full of smells that had Tigh's mouth watering from the moment he stepped inside. The radio was humming with holiday music. It took Tigh a full few minutes to realize how few the furnishings really were. Crammed into the small space as they were, the effect was such to make the rooms look full to bursting. Starbuck nudged Tigh with her elbow, and on gaining his attention, nodded to the embroidery mounted on the wall:

The Agathon Family  
Amor vincit omnia

 

What completed the picture were the family themselves. The food didn't cook itself, nor did the decorations hang on their own – a bevy of people of all sizes bustled to and fro, laughing and chasing one another as they went about their preparations. Tigh recognized the clan's leader with a start: Sharon Agathon, whom he'd met on a few occasions when she dropped by her husband's place of employment to leave a note or package. Sharon's dark hair was pulled back and her sleeves rolled up as she hurried around, instructing some of her children and curtailing the others.

"Gina," she said to the eldest, "remember to keep stirring the gravy."

"Yes, Mom," her daughter replied with a long-suffering smile.

Two younger children were playing keep-away with the mistletoe as an older boy tried to snatch it from them. "Mo-om!" he whined.

"D'Anna, Doral, give Simon the mistletoe. You know it's his job to hang it," Sharon chastised them, not needing to spare a look. "Your father will be home soon and we want everything to be ready for him and –"

The door behind Tigh flew open. "I'm home!" came a voice that was not his employee's.

"Shelley!" cried the younger two, dropping their prize and running to the door to hug their eldest sister. They brought her into the apartment, and Sharon broke into a wide smile.

"How can I help?" Shelley asked.

"Just set the table, you've been working all day. I can't believe they didn't let you have today off." She shook her head as she pulled a bottle of wine from the refrigerator.

"There was so much to do. It's our busy season, after all. They practically had to send me away. And you had time off, so I figured there were enough hands at home as it was." Shelley hung up her coat and hat. "Where's Dad?"

"He should be home any minute. They were just down at the temple."

"I see Daddy!" cried Doral, pointing out the window.

Soon enough, the door opened again, and in came Karl Agathon, bearing his youngest boy. "Hello, everyone!" he said. "Sorry we're late; little Leoben wanted to stay longer."

Tigh's eyes were drawn to the small boy as his father set him on the floor and made sure a cane made to fit his size was secure in his hand. Little Leoben was thin and pale, and Tigh could see that making his way into the apartment was a strain for him. His excitable siblings soon gathered him up and brought him to see the decorations.

Sharon stole over to her husband, who was shrugging out of his coat. "Did Leoben behave today, Helo?"

He nodded and kissed her forehead. "Perfect, like all of your family," he teased her before continuing softly. "He got a little tired on the way home, so we had to go more slowly. It was all right, though. He liked seeing the lights.

"He's such a strange little kid," he continued. "Always saying things that make him sound older than I am. He's smarter than I am, that's for sure. But then he'll press his nose up against a window and I'll remember that he's just a child, after all."

His voice had trailed off near the end as he watched his children set the table for their meal. Sharon gave her husband a hug. "Dinner's just about ready. Come on."

In little time at all, the feast was ready, and the family rushed to take their places at the table as the older girls, who resembled each other so closely that their heights and clothes alone differentiated them, brought in the food. Everyone exclaimed over each dish as it arrived, like they'd never seen such dishes in their lives. It wasn't much in the way of a feast, but they could not have been more impressed had it been a grand banquet. In no time at all, they had torn through the dinner and dessert. The children helped to clear the table, and they all settled together on the couch and chairs with warm mugs of cider.

"Blessed Brumalia to you all," said the father, everyone echoed it, and for the first time, Tigh believed the words were heartfelt. He watched his employee lift his youngest onto his lap and rub his back gently to soothe his cough.

"Spirit," he said to Starbuck, "tell me – will little Leoben live?"

"I see an empty chair at the table, and tiny cane without an owner, carefully preserved," she replied, her face distant. "If these shadows remain unaltered, the child will die."

"No," whispered Tigh. "No, don't say that. Let him be spared – tell me he will be!"

Starbuck's eyes pierced him. "If he's going to die, he'd better do it now and decrease the surplus population," she said with a curled lip.

Tigh shrank back from his own words, but the spirit was undeterred. "Whose right is it to judge who will live and who will die?" she continued. "Yours, Tigh? Others of your wealth and position? Do they deserve more out of life because of the material goods they've obtained through birth or chance? Is this child worth less to the world because of who his parents are?"

Tigh was at a loss for a reply. He was saved from further pain under her glare by Agathon's voice.

"To Mr. Tigh, the founder of the feast," he said, raising his glass.

"Oh, the founder of the feast, is he?" remarked Sharon. "I'd love to give that founder a piece of my mind. He can feast on _that_."

"Sharon," said Karl, "come on. It's Brumalia."

"I've never made my feelings about him a secret before, Helo, and I won't do it now just because it's a holiday," his wife continued, setting her mug down and crossing her arms. "You're stagnating at that place, and we all know it's because of him. You could do so much better, in treatment if nothing else."

"Not now, all right?" her husband responded. "Please. Mr. Tigh pays me for my work and he was generous enough to let me have today off when I know he'll be working the whole day through. For Brumalia, Sharon."

Softening under his resolution, Sharon took up her mug again. "For Brumalia, and for you, I'll drink to his health." The children, who had been glancing between their parents during this exchange, followed suit in the toast. After an uncomfortable pause, the conversation began again on other topics. The family was nothing remarkable – no different in manner of living or income than the rest of their building, perhaps. What they lacked in material goods and success, they more than made up in the glue of love that held them together.

"Let's go," Starbuck murmured, nudging Tigh to the door. He did his best to watch the family for as long as he could, but soon they were through the door and on a street in a different part of the city. In contrast to the cheap housing development they'd just come from, this neighborhood was a cleaner, more stylishly modern area. There were balconies at the windows, and doormen in the well-lit lobbies. From the street signs, Tigh recognized it as a neighborhood populated by up-and-coming young artists and professionals.

Starbuck seemed to fit in here as well as she had in the poorer area. She had the knack of blending into whatever company surrounded her, whereas Tigh felt equally out of sorts anywhere but among those of his own profession. He followed her, but his mind was still back with the Agathon family, so he didn't recognize Lee Adama's building until they were inside it and headed towards the elevator. As they rode, Starbuck leaned casually on the railing, took a drag from her half-smoked cigar, and blew a smoke ring at his face.

"Having fun yet?" she said.

He didn't answer, but the scowl that had come so easily before eluded him now, and the spirit laughed in response.

There was more laughter inside his nephew by habit's apartment, coming from young Adama himself. He sat in a fashionable but comfortable living room, surrounded by a host of guests who were smiling just as broadly, but none laughing so hard as he.

"I swear, that's what he said," Lee managed between laughs. "Boiled in his own pudding! And I think he really believed it, too."

His wife beside him laughed along. "Is that the instant pudding or the homemade kind?" she giggled. She was a petite brunette, with a young face like her husband's. Tigh tried to remember what she did to support her husband's academic pursuits. As she reached over to clasp his hand, her wide, bright smile jogged his memory – she was a dentist. They had offered to let him patronize her office at a discounted rate, but Tigh's pride forced him to refuse.

"He's a funny old man," Lee continued. "I'd never say it to his face, of course, but I don't think he's really all that bad, at heart. He's just not a, uh, social person."

"Just a rich one," Cally remarked, dimpled cheeks rosy with mirth. "But you keep deluding yourself, and I'll keep mocking him."

"He doesn't hurt anyone but himself with his attitude," Lee protested. "Refusing our invitation was his loss only, not ours."

Everyone agreed and drank to that. The group seemed ready to move on, but Lee had one last word to give. "If only for my father's memory, I'll keep trying with Tigh. I almost think he likes it that I call him Uncle, and if nothing else, I think time and persistence will eventually wear him down."

Cally patted his head patronizingly, and everyone laughed again. "Enough of Mr. Tigh," she declared, crossing to the small piano. "Lee got me a new book of music, and I'm dying to try it out." She struck up a familiar holiday tune, and the whole group joined in, save one man who made his way to Lee.

"I thought you and your father didn't get on," the friend remarked in a low, accented voice. His glasses and jacket marked him as another academic. Tigh suspected many of the assembled group were Lee's colleagues from the university, which was located nearby.

Lee sighed. "I didn't, when he was alive. There was…I blamed him for more than I should've, and he was so devoted to his work above anything else that we could never see eye to eye. After he died, I realized how much we'd both really lost."

"Sorry to bring it up, then," his friend answered.

He shrugged. "It's all right, I did it myself." He grinned mischievously. "Don't look now, Gaius, but Seelix is watching you."

The man – Gaius – straightened abruptly. "Is she, now? Then if you'll excuse me, Professor, I believe I've an experiment to tend to." With a confident smile and toss of his head, Gaius moved back to the group, and at the song's ending, proposed a game of blind man's bluff.

Lee watched them for a moment with a distant gaze before joining in, and Tigh, in turn, watched Lee. He was a fine figure of a man – not tall, but solidly built, with a clean, chiseled face. He favored his mother in features, but Tigh could see something of the father in the set of his jaw and in his eyes.

After watching Gaius, who was clearly and unashamedly cheating, chase poor Seelix around the room, they broke out a table and cards for Triad. Starbuck, who had been leaning against Lee's former chair with the least smug and sarcastic expression Tigh had ever seen on her, found her smile again and moved to watch the game. She took great pleasure in examining every player's cards and making predictions as to who would win each hand. She laughed along as their bets grew more absurd with each round, and when Tigh gave her a suspicious look as each of her predictions came true, she only winked.

The card players eventually broke up into smaller groups. Tigh took no end of pleasure, and not a small part of it wistful, in watching and listening to them. When Lee began to gather them together again for some sort of trivia game – sure to be a good competition in this crowd – Tigh looked to Starbuck, who was hovering behind them. "We can stay for this, right?" he pleaded.

But she shook her head solemnly. "Sorry. Time's up." She touched his arm, and the scene disappeared, being replaced with an unfamiliar hangar deck. It had been many years since Tigh had been in one himself, back when they were just starting in business and often had to fly their own transport ships. It was then that he had met with many so-called "real" pilots, those in the military who, like Starbuck, took great pleasure in their rivalry with the civilians. Starbuck stepped towards one of the dormant Vipers, which was covered with a tarp to keep off dust. She ran her hand over the tarp anyway as if to feel the ship's lines. Her cigar was down to little more than a stub.

"You're going to need another one of those," he commented, nodding at it.

"My time grows short," she replied.

Tigh was suddenly curious. "Whatever happened to you? I mean, in the real world?"

She chuckled lightly. "What makes you think I'm not still there?"

Tigh would have queried further but for noticing some movement beneath the tarp. "Starbuck – Spirit – is there something _alive_ underneath that?"

And before his very eyes, out from underneath the tarp crawled two misshapen figures. They were young men, or so he thought at first, though not more than youths, and childlike in their crouches. The hovered near to the spirit's legs. They were gaunt and limping, with bloodied bandages wrapped around the remnants of uniforms. They were fully horrifying, but Tigh could not turn away. "Who…what…"

"Don't you recognize them, Tigh? They're the products of humanity. More than these machines and buildings," she said, gesturing around the room, "it's these two who are your true legacy. This one is Ignorance, and that one is Want. Beware of them, Tigh, especially the first, for on his bandages and wounds, I see only doom."

"Can't they go anywhere for help?" asked Tigh.

"Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses?" she mocked him, sneering.

From somewhere in the hangar, there came a loud alarm. Starbuck dropped her stub of a cigar and twisted it under her boot. Bright light filled the room, and when Tigh could look again, she wasn't there.

But someone else was walking towards him.

"Ellen?"


	4. The Last of the Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is running out for Tigh as he gets a glimpse of Yet to Come. If these shadows remain unchanged...

It wasn't Ellen.

A decidedly female figure approached, her silhouette backlit by the receding light, and at first glance, Tigh had thought he recognized her, from the perfect curls all the way down her long legs. When she got closer and the lights returned slowly to normal, he could tell that while it wasn't his one-time fiancée, it was a strikingly beautiful woman. Her platinum blonde hair floated around her pale face, and her red dress left little to the imagination.

The look with which she fixed him was hard and cold, dashing away all thoughts of resemblance and turning Tigh's insides with fear.

He didn't think they were in the hangar anymore, but neither could he discern a new location. They were shrouded in a mist that reflected the only light in the darkness.

"Hello?" he ventured.

She said nothing.

A thought occurred to him. "Are you the Spirit of Solstice Yet to Come?" he asked.

She said nothing.

"You're going to show me the future?" he prompted.

Still nothing, but she raised an alabaster hand and pointed off behind him. Her silence, Tigh found, was more terrifying than anything he'd yet encountered on this long, strange night – or was it nights? He made it to his feet, however, and found that though the Spirit was only a little taller than he, he felt miniscule in her presence.

"Well," he said, straightening his shirt, "lead on, then."

Their march through the fog soon gave way to Caprica City Hall, a stately building downtown that Tigh had often frequented to give his input on decisions that might affect his business. It seemed such a meeting had just broken up in the usual conference room as a number of his colleagues emerged, still discussing what had been decided that day. Tigh searched for his own face but did not find it.

No one took notice of the unearthly beauty walking among them as she led Tigh to a group whom he recognized. They came upon the middle of their conversation.

"I only heard about it this morning," said one portly gentleman. "And just that he's dead."

"The reporter who called me said it was just last night," added another. He was one of Tigh's more frequent associates; newer in the business, and easier to get a better deal from, which was why he was one of Tigh's more frequent associates.

"What happened to the old coot?" a third, unknown to Tigh, asked.

"No clue, she didn't say," replied the second. "She did say when the service was scheduled, but I don't remember it at all. I was too busy trying to get _her_ number."

The third man snorted. "Don't tell me it was Playa Palacios. Much too small a story for her."

"Nah, but she sounded hot, anyway."

"Lunch, anyone?" the first man broke in, clearly bored with the conversation.

Before Tigh had time to rummage through his acquaintance and determine if he knew the unlucky soul, the spirit was moving again with a mechanical smoothness. He followed her to an old, rundown shipyard. Tigh recognized it as a part of the city he'd never had reason or inclination to visit. It was the sole remaining holdout of the Industrial Age, before computers and networking had come to dictate Colonial enterprise. Even after all these years of progress, the scent of coal and fossil fuels hung in the foggy air as they pushed on towards the landlord's dilapidated office.

They entered and found a man seated behind the desk with an air of authority, while three others sat on stools before him, bundles at their feet. All four were shabbily dressed, with unkempt hair and scarred faces. As far as Tigh was concerned, they were all equally base, but the three bore a reverent air that the fourth quietly accepted. They seemed to be waiting for him to speak.

He obliged them at last. "Castor falls, and Pollux bides his sweet time before joining his brother in Hades. Will Zeus let these two split their time between the Lords of Kobol and the depths of mortal hell?" he mused.

"Not likely," remarked one of the men. "Some underworld torture is all that's fit for the likes of them." He barked with laugher, as did the other two.

Their leader merely smiled, though there was little mirth in it. "Right you are, Meier." He sat up and leaned forward on the desk. "Well, then, what have you brought me from the spoils? Wilkens?"

The man on the far side of the room grinned. He was missing several teeth and had a gold-colored cap over another. Opening his sack, he laid a number of small trinkets on the desk before the leader. Cufflinks, jacket buttons with threads still dangling, a cigar holder, a candle snuff – that was all.

The leader examined them closely, then made a notation on his ledger. "Quality work, if not extravagant. They'll fetch a price, anyway. Next?" He looked at the middle man.

This gentleman, and the word is used generously, cackled as he pulled out a bottle of ambrosia – and then a second, and a third! With each finding, his companions' eyebrows raised higher, until at the fifth, they all broke into harsh laughter. Tigh found himself in want of a drink from what his practiced eye identified as quality beverage. "A man of taste!" the leader commented, making another note as they settled once again. "Had he any mourners, they might have put it to good use, but we all know no one will attend him. I doubt anyone's even given a coin for his passage. And what of you, Meier?" he asked the third man.

"Ah, Tom, my friend, everyone knows what a cheapskate the old man was. He hardly left that old place, and for all I know, still hasn't now. Just lies there and thinks about how much good all his money'll do him now, eh? He's deep in thought for a good long time, now, so he didn't notice when I took this," said Meier, who reached into his sack and pulled out a familiar-looking gun – the same model of handheld pistol that Tigh had pointed at the first spirit.

The room silenced as he placed the weapon on Tom's desk. They all leaned forward to watch as the leader picked it up and turned it over in his hands. "Clean and well kept," he commented.

Meier nodded vigorously. "And there's a case of bullets to go with it, too. Kept 'em in the nightstand; kept the gun under the mattress itself."

"Under the mattress?" burst out Wilkens. "You mean to say you snuck it out with him still lying on top and all?"

"Well, it's not like he was going to notice," Meier protested with pride. "If he couldn't rise from the dead shoot me when I came in, he sure wouldn't be able to shoot anyone else, now."

"Mr. Meier, you have outdone yourself this time," said the leader.

"Mr. Zarek, it's always a pleasure," he replied.

Tigh was thoroughly disgusted with those that might steal from their fellow man – a dead one, no less – and as the four of them continued to laugh and trade ribald jokes at their mark's expense, he turned to his stone-faced companion. "Spirit, I understand the lesson you've given here – what happened to that poor soul might happen to me. Let's move on – my gods!"

For the scene had changed during his plea, and they now stood before a lonely bed in a dark room. The bed was stripped of all comforts but a single shroud, which covered a figure lying on the mattress, straight and utterly still. No warmth, no rise and fall of breath – only silence and immobility.

Tigh shrank back from the figure. In the darkened room, he could only just perceive the angles of a ship, the darkness so pervasive and the room so detached that he felt they must have been in space.

The spirit was pointing at the figure.

"I know what you want me to do, Spirit," said Tigh, finding his voice, "but I cannot. Don't make me!"

The spirit still pointed.

"You wish me to reveal this poor soul's face. I won't do it! I won't!" he shouted.

The spirit's head turned with a mechanical smoothness to look at him with that unchanging expression, and Tigh cowered from it.

"Spirit," he pleaded, "if there is anyone in the city – hell, in the Colonies! – who feels emotion at this man's death, show them to me, I beg you!"

The darkness faded into artificial lighting. They were on the bridge of a small ship; Tigh recognized the layout as one of those contracted by his own business. A woman sat at the controls, her eyes flicking towards the communications console. She didn't have to wait long for it to light up. "What's the news?" she demanded before the face on the screen had even resolved into that of another woman.

"No extension," said the other.

The pilot paled and sat back in her seat. "Then it's over. We're ruined."

"Not necessarily," said her companion. "There's no extension because he's dead."

"Dead?" gasped the pilot. "Then is our debt absolved or transferred?"

"Transferred, I'm sure, but that'll be more than enough time for us to be paid again, and there's no way whoever takes over will be worse than he was. Relax, we're going to be fine," the woman assured her friend, and they both laughed in relief.

Tigh was not comforted. "That's not what I meant! Spirit, show me some tenderness connected with death, or my impressions of the world will truly be changed, and not how you want them to be!"

The ship disappeared and they were once again in apartment number twelve. Sharon and five of the children sat in the living room, much as they had been when Tigh left them. It was daylight now, however; the radio was silent, and the merry atmosphere that had once graced them was gone.

"Your father should be home," said Sharon, her always small figure seeming to have shrunk further still.

"Yes, pretty soon," said Simon, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "He's been a little slower coming home, that's all."

"I – I've seen him go quickly in the past, even when he had Leoben with him –" She couldn't finish.

"So have I," Gina jumped in, and the youngest two confirmed it.

Fortunately, they didn't have long to wait before Karl Agathon entered once again, alone this time. Everyone rose to greet him and bring him in to sit with them. D'Anna and Doral climbed upon either side of him, each taking an arm, while the elder three and Sharon tried to maintain smiling expressions.

"How was it?" Sharon finally asked.

"You should have come," her husband replied, hugging the small ones close. "Everything's so green at the temple right now. They've got a greenhouse there that keeps the flowers fresh all year long. The priestess took me to see where they…where he…" But Karl could continue no further. He hung his head as tears leaked from his eyes. "My boy," he choked out. "My little boy…"

The others seemed on the verge of joining him. Shelley had a handkerchief in hand and was trying to daub her eyes beneath her glasses without notice. Karl came to himself again, though, and straightened to his full seated height. "I have some other news to tell you. You'll never guess who I saw today."

Of course, a statement like that incited a round of guesses, from local friends to President Gray himself, but he shook his head at all of them. "I told you you'd never guess," he chuckled. "It was Mr. Adama's son – Adama was Mr. Tigh's partner, in life," he added for the benefit of the younger ones. "He's a fine man. He asked why I looked so…well, anyway, when I told him, he expressed his sincerest sympathies and gave me his promise that he would help us in any way he could, if we ever needed anything at all."

"Like what?" asked Doral.

"Well, he's a university professor, and he knows a lot about admissions and scholarships, for one," Karl explained, with a glance at his eldest. "He gave me his phone number and said he'd like to meet all of you, and I believe he meant it."

"Shelley can't go to college, then we'll never see her at all!" protested D'Anna, and her father laughed.

"She'll only be in school when you are, young lady," he said. "You'll probably see her more. But we don't have to always see everyone to remember them, do we?"

There was a round of agreement. Karl continued, "We'll always remember our little Leoben, won't we? No matter where life takes us." He looked around at his family. "I am very happy. Very happy."

Tigh and the spirit left the family hugging. "Spirit," he said as they made their way down the stairs, "I know we don't have much time, but you still haven't told me who that poor soul beneath the sheet was."

The spirit continued down the stairs.

"Where am I in this future?" he asked. "Why wasn't I able to help Agathon?"

They were out on the street, but headed in the opposite direction from his office. They passed through another mist and emerged at night in a temple graveyard. The green of which Agathon had spoken was dull in the darkness. Everything was grey – headstones, urns – the stone of every tomb was washed of its original color. The spirit stopped over a grave and pointed down at the flat stone marker.

"So this is it," muttered Tigh. To the spirit, he asked, "I'll look this time, Spirit, but first tell me: are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they what might be, only?"

The spirit pointed at the grave.

"Give me some hint!" he pleaded. "There's no such thing as inevitable outcomes! If you do one thing differently, the whole world can change!"

She did not move and still did not speak.

"Fine, we'll do it your way," he sighed. Two steps took him to the graveside, and when he bent over the cracked stone, he could read the name:

SAUL TIGH

 

"You're telling me that the man on the bed – the man with nothing – was me?" he gasped.

The spirit pointed from the grave to him and back again.

"No," he said weakly. "No, Spirit, no!"

That treacherous, manicured and unwavering finger remained the same.

"I am not that man, Spirit! I am not the man I was!" Tigh reached out and towards her. "I have changed! I _will_ change! I cannot be past all hope!"

He fell to his knees before the cold goddess. "Tell me I can change this future! If I am different in my heart and habits when I come back, if I – if I come back?" He realized with a start that the spirit might not be showing him distant future.

Her arm began to tremble; he seized the opportunity. "I swear by all the Lords of Kobol that I will not be the man I was. I will honor the gods with all my heart, all through the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. All three spirits, yes, all of them, will live in me! Spirit, tell me this doesn't have to be my future!"

With a cry, he clasped the spirit's wrist. There was a howling gust of wind, and as Tigh looked up, the spirit's eyes glowed red. The gravestone on which his other hand rested fell away, and with a shout, Tigh's hand slipped off of the spirit and he fell, face forward, into the endless darkness of the grave.


	5. The End of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know the story: It's a new day for Tigh and time for him to make amends.

Tigh landed on something soft. He hadn't expected to land at all, but when he opened his eyes, he found himself on his own bed, in his own quarters. He rolled onto his back and gazed around the room in amazement. Yes, it was most certainly his home, just as he remembered it. Even his gun rested on the bedside table, where he'd placed it after the first spirit's appearance.

"I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future," he repeated to himself as he sat up. "I said I'd do it, and by the gods, I will. Oh Bill," he said to the photograph mounted on the dresser, "I'll make up for all of it - I swear it by all the Lords of Kobol. And by your memory, Bill Adama!" His voice breaking, he collapsed forward into a sobbing fit.

A moment later, he was up rushing around the room to change into fresh clothes. Tigh hadn't moved this quickly in twenty years and felt no pain in doing it now – even without his usual morning starter. He somehow managed to avoid cutting himself shaving, but he tried at least three different configurations for his pants before he got them right, and his socks never matched.

For Tigh was laughing, and not the caustic bark of the past few decades, but a real, hearty laugh of joy. He was lightheaded, and his mouth was stretched and chapped from the genuine smile it hadn't held in ages. "I'm as light as a feather," he gasped out. "I'm as merry as a schoolboy; I'm drunk without having a drink!" He collapsed on the floor in laughter. "Blessed Brumalia to all! Praise the Lords of Kobol!"

He dashed into the sitting room. "There's the spilled glass still on the floor! And that's where Starbuck sat, bless her soul, wherever it is now! And Bill! Bill came in through that door – and went out that one!" Saying this, he ran to the porthole and wrenched it open, breathing deeply of the fresh morning air.

"What day is it?" he wondered. "How long have I been away? Who cares!" He laughed again, voice echoing across the narrow alleyway.

Unsatisfied with the view, he dashed through the ship, vaulting over railings and banging on the bulkheads. He reached the closed up bridge; the latch was shut tight, but with a lot of effort and even more laughter at his own failures, he wrenched it open and dashed in to get a good look out of the forward viewport. The day was clear, and there was a fresh layer of snow on the ground – winter then, but when?

His eye caught sight of the clock. "Saul, you old fool, the answers are right here!" He flicked a switch on the console and gasped upon reading the date. "I haven't missed it at all, then. The spirits did it all in one night! Well, of course they did, they're spirits, they can do whatever they want."

Struck with an idea, he turned on communications and called the specialty grocer's a few blocks away. "Hello, has your prize turkey been bought yet?" he asked when a sleepy looking boy answered.

"Not the large one," the boy said, shaking his shaggy head.

"Delightful boy," chuckled Tigh. "I'll have it!"

The boy uncapped a pen. "Delivered to you, sir?"

"Me? Hah, what would I do with such a bird? No, my boy, no. I have a very special purpose for it, and I'll give you an extra five cubits if you can promise me to get it there fast."

The boy sat up straighter, pen at the ready. "Yes, sir!"

"Charming boy!" exclaimed Tigh. "Send it to Karl and Sharon Agathon, but don't let the delivery man say who it's from." Grinning at his scheme, he gave the boy the address and had him read it back to be sure. "And what's your name, boy, so I can get you your tip?"

"Boxey, sir," the boy said proudly.

"Fine name, young man, a fine name!" said Tigh before he hung up. "Agathon will never know what's coming," he cackled, skipping off the bridge. As he passed his quarters again, he caught sight of the chimera on the wheel and paused for a moment to shake his head. A laugh bubbled up again, and he turned to dash down the stairs and out through the airlock hatch.

The streets were full of families, couples, and groups of friends of all ages. Their happiness was Tigh's, and he called out to them in greeting, though he'd never seen them in his life. Two blocks' walk did take him to a pair of familiar faces, and he now felt the true pang of guilt for his words the previous day.

"Mr. Keikaya! Ms. Dualla!" he called to them. They stopped at his hail.

"Mr. Tigh," Keikaya greeted him, jumping when Tigh grabbed his hand and began shaking it with vigor.

"Blessed Brumalia to you both," Tigh said. "How goes the fundraising? Well, I hope?"

"Yes, well," said Dualla. "Most of the business owners we spoke to were very generous."

Tigh flinched inside but continued on. "I wanted to apologize for what I said yesterday. I would very much like to donate to your cause." He leaned close to them and whispered a sum that made both of them gasp.

"Are you sure, Mr. Tigh?" asked Keikaya.

"Completely," Tigh replied, patting his hand one last time before releasing it. "Consider it a donation for previous years, if it'll make you feel better."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Tigh," said Dualla, her dark eyes wide in shock.

"With my blessings. Come and see me again, both of you," he instructed them to their fervent nods.

Tigh spent the day exploring Caprica City in ways he never had before. His knowledge of it had been confined to those particular establishments of which he was a patron and nothing further. His travels with the spirits had introduced him to sections of town of which he had only heard or read, and now he wanted to see them, and others, as more than a mere shadow. He underestimated the city's size at first as he tried to go up and down every block. Then he hit upon taking the light rail that had been installed a few years ago – a costly measure Tigh had voted against at the time. He recanted that vote and every harsh word that had accompanied it now as he rode up and down the tracks, waving at the operators and shaking the hand of every passenger on the train.

In the afternoon, he disembarked in the university district and walked to where the apartments and condominiums had balconies and doormen. He took the steps to Lee Adama's building two at a time, and as his name was still on the guest list, the man at the desk waved him by with a nod and a "Happy Solstice, sir."

Tigh hummed along with the music in the elevator and thought about what he was going to say. How to atone for years of neglect? Of denial? Could he ever make it up to Bill, and to Lee? He could try.

Lee answered his knock at the door. His jaw dropped open and he blinked a few times before managing to speak. "Uncle – I mean, Mr. Tigh. This is a surprise."

"Lee," said Tigh, "I've come. To dinner."

Lee's face broke into a brilliant, if still shocked, smile. "Well, uh, come in, then!" He gestured Tigh inside and called to his wife. "Cally! You'll never guess who's here."

Cally, still fixing one earring, poked her head out of a room down the hall. "Your uncle Tigh?" she teased.

Tigh stepped into her view. "Hello," he said.

Cally fumbled to catch her dropped backing. "Mr. Tigh…what a surprise…" she stuttered.

Lee came to her rescue. "Cally, I've got dinner going just fine. Take all the time you like before the other guests arrive." He kissed her cheek, and though her eyes flicked between Lee and Tigh, she seemed reassured and disappeared again.

"Lee," began Tigh as they took seats, "I want you to know that...your father was a very dear friend of mine."

Lee nodded. "And you were his."

"Yes. Which is why I should have come long before now and not…well. Lee, I would be honored if you would think of me as family."

"Uncle," Lee said with a smile, "I always have."

The party was just as Tigh had seen it before, but with added pleasure for Tigh as he was now a part of the festivities. He learned that Gaius Baltar was indeed another professor, and that half the group were Cally's colleagues. He toasted with them, sang with them, gambled with them, and was the first to point out Gaius's sightedness in blind man's bluff. It was a wonderful evening, and Tigh left with promises to have another dinner, and to visit both their offices after the holiday.

The next morning, Tigh was downstairs to work an hour early to beat Agathon there. But his employee was not early; in fact, he was almost twenty minutes late, and he tried to sneak in quickly as if to pretend he had always been sitting in that chair.

"Agathon!" Tigh barked in his usual voice. "What do you mean by coming so late? You said you'd be early today."

"I know, Mr. Tigh," replied Agathon. "I'm very sorry, sir."

"Come out here," Tigh commanded him.

Agathon did, as slowly as he could manage without a scolding. He stood tall when he arrived, and Tigh rose as well, stepping around his desk to face him. "Well?" he demanded.

"I said I was sorry, sir. We were celebrating the holiday yesterday. I've been early all year, sir. It's just one day." Agathon, though contrite, did not let his familial pride falter.

"You expect me to take that?" growled Tigh. "Well, I'll tell you one thing, Agathon; I won't stand for this sort of thing any longer. You hear me? And that's why," he said, shaking a little, "that's why…" He had to turn around to compose himself for a moment before returning to Agathon's confused face. "That's why I'm raising your salaray!"

"Mr. Tigh…I…what?"

"A raise, Agathon. To help you feed that growing family of yours," Tigh explained. His employee still didn't seem to have understood. In fact, he was eyeing the phone, and Tigh thought with an internal chuckle that if he didn't move quickly, Agathon might knock him out and call a psychiatric institution on him.

He clapped a hand on Agathon's shoulder, making him jump. "I'm serious, Karl. I've been a terrible employer to you. I want to make up for it, now and in the future. As long as I have anything to say about it, you'll never be in want for anything again." He smiled and patted Agathon's shoulder once more before heading back to his desk. "And turn up the heat, it's frakking freezing in here!"

Agathon's stunned face slowly melted into a wide smile. "Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Tigh. I'll – I'll do that right away."

Tigh did even more than he promised. Not only did Agathon get a raise, but he became an apprentice to Tigh, with the aim of taking over the business when Tigh eventually did retire. He fixed up the aging ship and hired the Agathon children to help clean and paint it over their breaks from school; though Tigh and his nephew by choice did most of the work, the children were paid generously in both cubits and treats. He became not only their friend, but a second father to the younger ones, especially little Leoben, who did not die.

He joined in the community beyond what was required of him and always gave generously to public projects. Some of his colleagues disdained his new philosophies, but Tigh only laughed them off and took up with those more suited to his newfound good nature. He stopped stocking ambrosia as if preparing for an apocalypse and only indulged in moderation, at parties and social gatherings.

Everyone who knew him after his Solstice encounter, as he thought of it, considered him among the kindest, and most generous and cheerful of their acquaintance, and every Brumalia after that was celebrated in grand fashion at the offices of Adama and Tigh. When he saw a person hunched over, dour-faced, and surly on the streets, he stopped them, and said, "Blessed Brumalia," no matter what the season – and by the gods, if there wasn't something in his eyes to make them believe him!


End file.
